A very man--not one of nature's clods--
With human failings, whether saint or sinner:
Endowed perhaps with read more

A very man--not one of nature's clods--
With human failings, whether saint or sinner:
Endowed perhaps with genius from the gods
But apt to take his temper from his dinner.

The genuine Amphitryon is the Amphitryon with whom we dine.
[Fr., Le veritable Amphitryon
Est l'Amphitryon ou read more

The genuine Amphitryon is the Amphitryon with whom we dine.
[Fr., Le veritable Amphitryon
Est l'Amphitryon ou l'on dine.]

Here is bread, which strengthens man's heart, and therefore is
called the staff of Life.

Here is bread, which strengthens man's heart, and therefore is
called the staff of Life.

But that our feasts
In every mess have folly, and the feeders
Digest it with a custom, read more

But that our feasts
In every mess have folly, and the feeders
Digest it with a custom, I should blush
To see you so attired, swoon, I think,
To show myself a glass.

Oh, dainty and delicious!
Food for the gods! Ambrosia for Apicius!
Worthy to thrill the soul of read more

Oh, dainty and delicious!
Food for the gods! Ambrosia for Apicius!
Worthy to thrill the soul of sea-born Venus,
Or titillate the palate of Silenus!

For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Some men are born to feast, and not to fight;
Whose sluggish minds, e'en in fair honor's field,
read more

Some men are born to feast, and not to fight;
Whose sluggish minds, e'en in fair honor's field,
Still on their dinner turn--
Let such pot-boiling varlets stay at home,
And wield a flesh-hook rather than a sword.

Their best and most wholesome feeding is upon one dish and no
more and the same plaine and simple: read more

Their best and most wholesome feeding is upon one dish and no
more and the same plaine and simple: for surely this hudling of
many meats one upon another of divers tastes is pestiferous. But
sundrie sauces are more dangerous than that.

'Tis not her coldness, father,
That chills my labouring breast;
It's that confounded cucumber
read more

'Tis not her coldness, father,
That chills my labouring breast;
It's that confounded cucumber
I've ate and can't digest.